


ghost of you

by nightswatch



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightswatch/pseuds/nightswatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras is a ghost that lives in Grantaire's new apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghost of you

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【中文翻译】Ghost of You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225963) by [BinaryTree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BinaryTree/pseuds/BinaryTree), [nightwatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwatch/pseuds/nightwatch)



> Okay, so I didn't tag major character death, because Enjolras is a ghost, so he's actually already dead and his death doesn't happen in the fic. It's briefly talked about, though.  
> I honestly wasn't quite sure how to tag this, but yeah, if you don't like the idea of someone falling in love with a ghost, you probably shouldn't read this.   
> (By the way, the Combeferre/Courfeyrac is very, very minor. Just in case that's what you're here for.)

Grantaire had never wanted a fancy apartment. Not only because he technically didn’t have the money for a fancy apartment, but also because he simply had no need for it. When he found a fancy apartment for the price of a crappy one, however, he thought that he could give wanting a fancy apartment a try.

Why was it the price of a crappy apartment? Well, the landlord told him that the previous tenants had had all kinds of problems, from inexplicable power outages that no electrician could fix or even explain, to even more inexplicable disappearances ranging from small things like books and keys to bigger things such as laptops and even TVs. Now it was hard to find people who even wanted to move in.

Grantaire found those stories only mildly concerning. He would make sure to lock the door at night, because obviously TVs didn’t just vanish. TVs were stolen. It was hardly the apartment’s fault.

And now he might even enjoy such conveniences as a consistent water pressure, walls that didn’t crumble apart right before his very eyes and a room with great lighting that he could use solely for painting. It really couldn’t be all that bad.

It didn’t really take him long to move in, his friends, Joly, Bossuet and Bahorel, had helped him carry boxes and cart his furniture from his old apartment to his new one, and he set up his painting supplies, while Joly and Bossuet sorted his books by color and Bahorel put his bed back together. Afterwards they went out drinking to their favorite bar, the Corinthe, and Grantaire only barely managed to drag himself back to his apartment. He knew the city well, but maybe he shouldn’t have had that last beer after all.

He was dimly aware that he hadn’t thought to unpack his bedsheets, so he dug a blanket out of one of his moving boxes and curled up on his mattress, not bothering with finding a pillow. He was asleep within the minute.

In the morning he felt nice and warm, although the dull hammering inside his skull was a little inconvenient. The roiling in his stomach didn’t make it much better either. Grantaire groaned and turned over, away from the sunlight that was now shining onto his back.

He sighed and pried his eyes open, and although his vision still was a bit bleary he could definitely see that there was someone sitting next to him on the mattress. _Shit_.

Grantaire was pretty sure he’d gone home alone the night before. There shouldn’t be anyone sitting on his bed. He blinked rapidly, staring up at the guy, the really unearthly beautiful guy, bright eyes, full lips, delicate face framed by blond curls – and he was staring right back at him. Grantaire frowned. Even if he hadn’t been sure that he’d gone home alone, a guy like that would never even go anywhere near him.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said lowly, “but who the fuck are you?”

The guy’s eyes went wide. “You can see me?”

“What the fuck, man? Of course I can see you, you’re right there,” Grantaire said, sitting up slowly.

“But no one has ever seen me,” the guy said. He tilted his head and leaned closer. “You’re not supposed to see me.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Grantaire grumbled. It was too early in the morning for shit like this. Or at least he was pretty sure that it was still morning. “Why exactly is it that I’m not supposed to see you?”

“I’m…” He paused, biting his lip. “Well, technically I’m a ghost.”

Grantaire snorted. Yeah, right. A ghost. “Did Joly put you up to this?”  Grantaire had told him that all kinds of weird shit had happened to the people who’d lived here and Joly had made jokes about it being haunted. Obviously this was some kind of elaborate prank. A damn good prank, though, Grantaire had to admit.

“Is he one of your friends?” the guy asked. His eyes were still wide, a quite amazing shade of blue. Maybe he was an aspiring actor – he certainly had the looks for it. Aspiring actors took all kinds of jobs, didn’t they? Maybe someone had hired him. Apparently not Joly, though.

Grantaire nodded, his frown deepening. “So, you don’t know him? Then how the fuck did you get in here?”

“I’m always here. I told you, I’m a ghost, you’re not even supposed to see me.” He almost looked like he was pouting and Grantaire would have thought it was endearing if this whole situation hadn’t been so ridiculous.

Grantaire reached out to touch him, because whoever this guy was, he definitely wasn’t a fucking ghost, but when he did, his hand when right through his thigh. Okay. _Shit_. Maybe he was still drunk. Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe someone had slipped him something. Whatever it was, he saw himself faced with an incredibly vivid hallucination.

“Told you,” the fucking hallucination said. He even had the audacity to sound smug. What an ass.

“You’re not real,” Grantaire said to him, shook his head and got up. He needed coffee. A lot of coffee. A coffee shower maybe.

He drank two cups of atrocious instant coffee, then he went to take a shower, and yes, the water pressure was heavenly, his headache was starting to subside, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, he had started whistling a song.

Grantaire abruptly stopped whistling when he found someone sitting on his sofa, looking at him expectantly. It was his super hot hallucination. He let out a squeak and walked straight back into the bathroom, looking the door behind him. Not that hallucinations could open doors, but still. He walked over to the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. “Get a fucking grip,” he whispered to himself.

His hallucination, however, didn’t seem to want him to get a grip, but took to insistent knocking, probably in an attempt to drive Grantaire nuts.

When Grantaire didn’t answer, he tried again. “Please come back.”

“No way,” Grantaire said loudly.

“I haven’t talked to anyone in four years, please don’t hide in there, I’ll explain everything, I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Grantaire sighed. As far as he knew this was just a trick of his mind, so it really couldn’t hurt to try to figure out what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

He yanked open the door and found blondie waiting for him right outside. “Do you have a name?” Grantaire asked gruffly.

“I’m Enjolras,” he said. “Your name is Julien, right?”

“Don’t call me that ever again,” Grantaire grumbled and went to get another cup of coffee. He’d have to buy food soon, but first he needed to figure out what the hell was going on. “Grantaire’s fine.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Enjolras said, a smile tugging at his lips. He hopped up on the counter, noiselessly, his feet dangling in the air. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough coffee?”

“Shut up, you’re just a hallucination, you’re not supposed to comment on my coffee drinking habits,” Grantaire said.

“I told you, I’m a-”

“Ghost, yeah, I heard you,” Grantaire interrupted. “But that’s impossible. Maybe I’m still asleep.”

“You’re not,” Enjolras said sternly. “Listen, I know the landlord told you about all the strange things that happened in this apartment, didn’t that strike you as weird?”

Grantaire frowned. “You’re telling me that was you?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I didn’t like them.”

“But you like me?” Grantaire asked, eyebrows raised.

“You can see me, that’s definitely a plus.”

“You know what,” Grantaire mumbled, staring at Enjolras for a few seconds too long, “I’m going back to bed.” This was bullshit.

“No, Grantaire, please wait,” Enjolras said, reaching out to catch his wrist. His hand was icy.

Grantaire shivered. “How…”

“I can touch things, only when I concentrate, but it works sometimes,” Enjolras explained quickly. “It took me ages to learn how to do it, but it was quite helpful with getting people to move out.”

“This is quite possibly the freakiest thing that has ever happened to me,” Grantaire whispered. He quickly shook his head. He couldn’t believe that he was really starting to consider that this might actually be happening.  

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” Enjolras asked, eying Grantaire’s laptop on the coffee table. “Just look it up. Look _me_ up.”

Grantaire, still skeptic, grabbed his laptop and pulled up Google. “What’s your full name?”

“François Enjolras,” was the immediate answer.

Much to Grantaire’s surprise there were dozens of articles, all dating back roughly four years. There were pictures, videos, an interview with his parents, apparently wealthy business people, news related to a demonstration that had turned into a riot, names of reported casualties. The list was endless. Grantaire swallowed hard and looked up at Enjolras, who’d grown quiet, his eyes still fixed on Grantaire’s laptop screen.

“Shit,” Grantaire whispered. “You’re a fucking ghost.”

Enjolras turned to look at him, _what the fuck did I tell you_ written all over his face. “I am.”

Grantaire let out a hysterical giggle, because there was a goddamned ghost in his apartment and he was basically talking to a dead guy and he really, really was in bad need of a drink. A strong one. “Stay right here,” he said and marched off to get one of the few bottles of wine that had made it from his old apartment to this one. Bossuet had broken a couple when he’d tried to put as many as he could into one box.

Enjolras regarded him with a stern glance when Grantaire took a swig right from the bottle.

“Give me a break,” Grantaire muttered. “I have to share my apartment with a _ghost_.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras snapped, “it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

_Oh_. “You’ve been hanging around here for four years?”

“I used to live here, so I just… stayed. I used to visit my friends, tried to talk to them and all that but by the time I’d figured out how to move things and how to communicate it seemed that they’d moved on, they were happy, you know? I just wanted to tell them I was okay, but I didn’t want to freak them out, so I just stopped going to see them at some point. It wasn’t…” Enjolras trailed off, shrugging, looking back at the laptop again.

He was staring at one of the articles Grantaire had opened, one from a student paper, and there was a picture of Enjolras and two other guys, probably the friends he’d been talking about, all of them beaming at the camera.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire mumbled. Enjolras must have been so lonely all this time. Yes, he was sympathizing with the fucking ghost. What else was he supposed to do? This was freaking him out, a lot more than he cared to admit, but he couldn’t just send him away, could he? “I guess we can share the place.”

“It’s not like you have a choice,” Enjolras said, smiling smugly. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

* * *

Enjolras obviously didn’t stay out of his way. He soon turned into some kind of ever-present voice in his ear, scolding him when he drank too much coffee while he was working, when he ordered takeout for the fifth time in a row because he was too lazy to cook, when he smoked and didn’t open the window.

He didn’t like the smoke, he claimed, and Grantaire liked to remind him that it wouldn’t do anything to him because he was dead already, but Enjolras still wrinkled his nose every time. Grantaire wasn’t even sure if Enjolras could even smell it.

When Grantaire stumbled into his apartment late at night, tipsy and ready to fall into bed, Enjolras was always there waiting for him, when Grantaire wasn’t alone, he retreated quickly without uttering a word.

On some nights, though, when he didn’t feel like sleeping yet, they’d sit down on his bed together and Grantaire would tell Enjolras about his day, about where he’d gone with Joly and Bossuet for brunch, or about his boxing matches with Bahorel.

Sometimes Grantaire found books open on the table and he knew it must have been Enjolras who’d read them. Somehow Enjolras had also found out what his password was and kept reading the news on his laptop. Sometimes the TV was on when he got home. Sometimes Enjolras wrote messages for him with his fridge magnets.

It was surprisingly easy to get used to. Much easier than it should have been.

On some days, though, Enjolras was downright annoying.

“Don’t you have a commission to finish?” The bed didn’t bounce when Enjolras sat down on the mattress.

Grantaire didn’t answer. He just wanted to stay in bed all day. It was one of those days and he really didn’t feel like talking to Enjolras right now. He knew he was fucking useless, he didn’t need Enjolras to judge him, too.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras said, poking him with a cold finger. “Are you sick?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire grumbled. It wasn’t the truth, not exactly, but Enjolras seemed to buy it. Grantaire screwed his eyes shut, satisfied when Enjolras didn’t say another word.

A couple of minutes later his duvet was tucked around him and there was a clunk, then a sigh of relief, at which Grantaire eventually opened his eyes again. Enjolras was standing next to his bed, looking down at him with a worried expression.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire saw that he’d left a cup of tea on the bedside table, which must have been quite hard for Enjolras to manage. He knew that it was easy enough for him to move things around, but carrying stuff was an entirely different story. Grantaire wouldn’t admit it, but he was actually quite touched. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, scooting over to make space for Enjolras, who took the hint without batting an eye.

“I carried the mug,” Enjolras said, looking quite proud of himself.

“Yeah, thanks for not breaking that, it was a gift from Joly.”

“You don’t look well,” Enjolras said, reaching up to feel Grantaire’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you actually feel that?” Grantaire asked, grabbing for Enjolras’ hand. It didn’t work.

“I can feel that you’re warm.” Enjolras’ fingers curled around his hand, interlacing their fingers. “And this only works when I touch you.”

Grantaire hummed. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said simply. “I don’t know why you can see me and no one else ever could. I don’t know why I’m here.”

“So, there’s never been anyone else? No other ghosts?” Grantaire asked, looking down at their intertwined fingers. If anyone saw him right now, saw only him and not Enjolras sitting next to him, they’d think he was crazy.

He hadn’t told anyone about Enjolras. For obvious reasons. Joly would have him committed.

“No, not here anyway,” Enjolras said quietly. “There might be others out there, but I never went looking for them.”

“You only went to see your friends,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras nodded, looking sad all of a sudden, and Grantaire immediately felt bad for bringing it up. They fell silent and after a while Grantaire fell asleep again, faintly aware of ice-cold fingers combing through his curls.

Enjolras was still there when he woke up again, curled up on the other side of the bed, watching him intently. Grantaire sometimes wondered if Enjolras ever slept, what he did when he wasn’t sitting on the couch next to Grantaire or wasn’t watching him work through his commissions or wasn’t nagging at him because of one thing or another. Sometimes he just simply wasn’t there, maybe just in another room, but definitely absent.

And sure, Grantaire was glad that he wasn’t being watched twenty-four hours a day, he needed some privacy every now and then, but all in all having someone who was there for him was much more pleasant than Grantaire had thought it would be.

“Do you know the Café Musain?” Enjolras asked.

“Yeah, sure.” He’d been there a couple of times. The guy who worked at the gallery that had some of his paintings on display every now and then was a barista there as well.

Enjolras held his gaze for a while, then let out a breath he’d apparently been holding. Grantaire didn’t question that Enjolras apparently breathed. He didn’t question anything anymore. “Can you go there with me?” Enjolras asked.

“To the Musain? Why, do you want to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich?”

“I want to see if they’re there,” Enjolras said quietly. Grantaire barely heard him. “Please, I don’t want to go on my own.”

“Why do you think they’d be there?” Grantaire asked. Of course he’d go with him. If your house ghost asked you for a favor, you didn’t say no. You just didn’t.

“We used to go there a lot. It’s just… a hunch, I suppose. Anyway, if you ever feel like getting some coffee on Friday night, take me with you?”

“Sure, yeah.”

* * *

The Musain was packed as it always was on a Friday night, but Feuilly still had a smile to spare for him when he walked inside, forcing himself not to hold the door open for Enjolras. He got a coffee and a sandwich and squeezed himself into a corner where there was an empty armchair and a small table.

Enjolras sat down on the armrest, looking around the café.

Grantaire tried his hardest not to look at him too much, because technically he wasn’t there, but he couldn’t really ignore him either.

“They aren’t here,” Enjolras muttered after a while.

Grantaire sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocked. _Maybe they’ll come later_ , he typed. He didn’t want to get Enjolras’ hopes up, but he’d been so excited when they’d left, pointing out all the things that had changed on their way here, and Grantaire just wanted to see him happy even if it only was for a little while longer.

Enjolras was always quite somber, was so serious about everything, and every time Grantaire got him to crack a smile, he couldn’t help but feel accomplished. And sometimes, on rare occasions, he even got Enjolras to laugh with him.

“You don’t mind waiting?” Enjolras asked, gently touching his shoulder.

Grantaire winced a little, because Enjolras’ fingers were always so cold, but took up his phone again. _Not at all, I’ll just get another coffee. Unless you want to complain about me drinking too much coffee again._

“What do you mean, _again_? I hardly ever complain about the coffee, although I’m pretty sure your coffee consumption is incredibly unhealthy.”

Grantaire only huffed. He didn’t need to dignify that with a response.

“We always used to sit over there, by the window. Where that couple is sitting, do you see them? The ginger guy and the blonde girl?”

Grantaire nodded ever so slightly.

“Courfeyrac sometimes brought his boyfriend. They broke up about a year after… Anyway, I don’t even know if they still live in the city, you know? They might have moved and I wouldn’t even know, they might be, I don’t know, married? And I… oh my god.”

Enjolras jumped up, his fingers digging into Grantaire’s shoulder almost painfully. Enjolras’ touches had always been light so far, nothing like this, and the touch went through Grantaire like a bolt of lightning.

“It’s them, Grantaire, they’re here.”

Grantaire looked up, eyes darting to the door. A couple had just come inside, holding hands, one of them tall, his hair disheveled, his glasses fogging up, the other one laughing, waving at Feuilly enthusiastically. Grantaire recognized them from a photo he’d seen a while ago.

Behind them a tall, lanky guy had walked inside, wearing the most ridiculous outfit, but still somehow managing to pull it off. Grantaire knew him, had met him back when he’d still been in art school, although he couldn’t remember when and how and what his name was, but he’d definitely seen him before. They’d definitely talked to each other at some point. Maybe shared a smoke.

“Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Jehan,” Enjolras said, pointing at them respectively.

Right, Jehan, that’s what his name was. They all sat down at the same table that Enjolras had pointed out to him earlier, greeting the couple that was sat there loudly, all of them laughing happily. Courfeyrac and Combeferre slid onto the bench by the window, and Courfeyrac planted a kiss on Combeferre’s cheek once they’d settled.

Which was when Enjolras let go of Grantaire and stormed out of the café, right through the door, never looking back once. Grantaire gulped down the rest of his coffee and followed him. He found him outside, sitting on the curb, looking absolutely miserable.

Grantaire looked around, making sure no one was around. “Enjolras?”

Enjolras looked up. “Can we go home?”

He curled up next to him that night, which he usually didn’t do, he always left before Grantaire went to sleep, probably to give him space. Enjolras was decent like that.

“They’re together now,” Enjolras whispered when Grantaire had almost fallen asleep.

His eyes fluttered open again, trying to make out Enjolras’ ghostly pale features in the darkness. “Does that bother you?”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s just… I missed all of that. They just lived on and I… I have no one.”

“You have me,” Grantaire muttered.

“Yes,” Enjolras mumbled after a while, “I have you.”

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Grantaire jumped, knocking over his cup of coffee. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Spilling your coffee?” Enjolras asked, dragging a finger through the scalding hot liquid without batting an eye.

Grantaire watched him for a couple of seconds, once again hit with the realization that he was sharing his apartment with some kind of supernatural creature.

Grantaire had read up on ghosts, had read story after story, had gone to the goddamned library to find actual scientific proof for the existence of ghosts to somehow make sense of this. But in all those months he’d never managed to find anything to put him at ease.

Every time he thought about it, he was rewarded with a splitting headache. “Smartass,” Grantaire grumbled and started mopping up the coffee, careful not to accidentally step into Enjolras. It had happened once before and Grantaire had promised himself that he’d make sure it would never happen again. It wasn’t a nice feeling, to say the least.

“I need you to get a book for me,” Enjolras said, stepping up next to him.

“And I need you to stop sneaking up on me,” Grantaire muttered. “Really, I keep breaking dishes, this has to stop.”

“It’s not my fault that you’re not paying attention, it’s not like I’m see-through.”

“Well, everything you do is basically noiseless, just announce yourself next time?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Honey, I’m home,” he whispered and dashed off to sulk on the sofa. Enjolras sulked a lot, especially when Grantaire wouldn’t let him have his way and it really was hilarious to watch. There was a lot of glaring, a lot of passive-aggressive mumbling, until he eventually relented and talked to Grantaire again, sometimes after hours, sometimes after days.

The days spent in silence were the worst ones, because sometimes Grantaire could feel Enjolras was there, oftentimes he could even see him, and he desperately wanted to talk to him, but he was scared Enjolras wouldn’t answer, so he waited for him to make the first step.

It didn’t seem to be all that bad right now, though, not as bad as some of the arguments they’d had after watching the news together – something Grantaire had learned to avoid. Enjolras, even though he was dead and had no possibility to change anything whatsoever, was still ridiculously idealistic and always tried to get Grantaire to join activist groups, to write letters to editors of newspapers, to set the city hall on fire. Although the last one had been a joke. Probably.

Now Enjolras was still following him with his eyes, waiting until Grantaire had made himself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down next to him, eyeing him warily.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his voice carefully neutral, “about that book I wanted…”

“I’m not getting you another book.” Ever since Enjolras had started strolling through the city while Grantaire was working, he’d been coming back with requests. A film he wanted to see here, a book he wanted to read there, and at first Grantaire hadn’t minded, but it was starting to get a little out of hand. “Seriously, people are going to think that I have the hots for Robespierre.”

“That was only the one-”

“No,” Grantaire said decidedly. “By the way, Joly and Bossuet are coming over later, so you need to behave.”

At first Enjolras had always retreated when Grantaire’s friends had come over, but then he’d started watching movies with them, had watched them play board games and poker, had refused to tell Grantaire what cards the others had, the traitor.

He’d started throwing in comments and Grantaire often had trouble not laughing out loud, and he’d started messing with Joly and Bossuet, sometimes so obviously that Grantaire was sure that, had they all been sober, someone would have noticed that something weird was going on. 

That night Enjolras retreated to Grantaire’s room instead, probably to wreak havoc again, because he liked to organize things when he was bored – the problem was that halfway through organizing things he usually grew bored again and just left everything lying around.

When Joly had just put in the second movie, Grantaire found Enjolras sitting in the doorway to his bedroom, head leaning back against the wall, his knees drawn up against his chest. Bossuet said something that Grantaire didn’t hear, but Joly laughed, and Enjolras’ bottom lip trembled a little.

“What are you looking at?” Joly asked as he sat down again, jamming his elbow into Grantaire’s ribs.

Enjolras looked up at that, his eyes on Grantaire.

“Nothing,” Grantaire said quickly, waiting until Joly and Bossuet had both turned their attention back to the TV and quietly patted the empty space next to him on the sofa, hoping Enjolras would get the hint.

Enjolras tilted his head, frowning at him for a while until he finally got up and slid into the narrow space next to Grantaire and reached for his hand as he did so often.

They sat together like this so frequently, it didn’t even strike Grantaire as strange anymore. He understood that sometimes Enjolras must feel incredibly lonely and even though Grantaire could only offer him minimal comfort, he really was the only person he could talk to, as inadequate as he often felt. He couldn’t even make himself feel better sometimes, so he wasn’t sure if he was doing such a great job with Enjolras.

They still sat together long after Joly and Bossuet had left, trying to play Monopoly, _trying_ because at one point Enjolras got so angry that he smacked the board off the table and they had to start all over again.

Grantaire grew tired soon, kept yawning until Enjolras looked at him sternly and told him to go to bed.

“Are you coming?” Grantaire asked before he could properly think about what he was saying.

When Enjolras smiled and trudged off to the bedroom, Grantaire knew he was so, so fucked.

* * *

Grantaire didn’t know how to deal with this.

He didn’t know what to do with the feeling he got right before he opened the door to his apartment, knowing he’d find Enjolras waiting for him inside, or when he found Enjolras watching him paint, when he found Enjolras muttering curses at the eight o’clock news.

He knew full well what was going on here. He was slowly but surely falling in love with a ghost.

Or maybe he was just going crazy. He often thought about Enjolras, often wondered if he maybe was a figment of his mind after all. Maybe one day he’d come and Enjolras would be gone. Maybe then he’d feel like a sane person again for once.

Sometimes it was easy to accept, sometimes Enjolras’ presence was soothing, but on other days it almost scared him, made him doubt everything he knew, made him feel helpless and small. On those days he went out – without Enjolras. He drank until he forgot. Stumbled home. Fell into bed.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Well, usually the falling into bed part was followed by him falling asleep, not by Enjolras being annoying as fuck and acting like he was his babysitter.

“Leave me alone,” Grantaire grumbled. “’m tired.”

“ _Grantaire_.”

“Seriously, jus’ let me sleep.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Great, can you go be worried somewhere else?”

Enjolras shoved him hard. “Do you think this is funny? You’re going to kill yourself if you keep going like this, is that what you want?”

“Fuck off, Enjolras, you don’t get to choose how I live my life. I didn’t ask for your opinion, I didn’t ask for you to…” Grantaire shook his head. His thoughts were a mess. “Just go away, go away, leave me alone, I don’t want you here, okay? Just fucking leave.”

Enjolras recoiled, his expression hurt. “If that is what you want.”

“Yeah, that’s want I want,” Grantaire snapped and tugged his duvet over his head.

Grantaire wasn’t worried when he didn’t find Enjolras waiting for him in the kitchen the next morning to glare at him when he got his morning coffee. He was probably hiding somewhere, sulking, although he usually didn’t pass up an opportunity to tell Grantaire that he was wasting his life and needed to get a grip.

It wasn’t like Grantaire didn’t know that he was an enormous fuck-up, he really didn’t need to be reminded. Obviously that didn’t keep Enjolras from trying – sometimes he even put on his terrifying-ghost face.

Today he apparently felt like hiding rather than scolding him.

Grantaire realized that he had been pretty harsh the night before, but Enjolras knew he hadn’t meant it. He’d known him for so long, he _had_ to know. Still, Grantaire was starting to think that he should have kept his mouth shut.

After a day had passed Grantaire was starting to feel a little uneasy. Enjolras had never stayed away for longer than twenty-four hours, not like this. Grantaire had always _somehow_ known he was still there.

Grantaire was starting to look for signs that Enjolras had been around, looked for open books, for things that weren’t in the same place they’d been before, but there was nothing there to indicate that Enjolras was still around.

* * *

It wasn’t until almost a week later that there was a sign of life from Enjolras. Well, maybe _life_ wasn’t exactly the right word.

Grantaire had made an attempt at distracting himself by cleaning the apartment, or at least he’d tried to, because he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, the nights he’d spent awake waiting for Enjolras to return finally taking their toll. When he woke up again, he found a blanket tucked around him. He sat up, blinking rapidly. “Enjolras?”

There was no answer, but Grantaire was certain that it had been him.

“I know you’re here,” Grantaire said and slowly got up, wandering around the apartment, checking each room. “Enjolras, please, I’m sorry for what I said. Come back.”

“Are you just saying that to get me to come back?”

Grantaire turned around, finding Enjolras standing in the door to his bedroom, and couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. “There you are.”

“You almost sound like you were worried,” Enjolras said lowly.

Grantaire frowned. “Well, I was. A little.”

“You told me to go away.”

“I didn’t mean go away for a week and don’t tell me where you went,” Grantaire grumbled.

“Oh, how does that feel?”

“I’ve never been gone for that long,” Grantaire said defensively.

Enjolras sighed and took a few steps closer until he was face to face with Grantaire, towering over him, raising his hand to brush his fingers down Grantaire’s cheek. “You have to look out for yourself, I can’t do it for you.”

Grantaire froze, staring up at Enjolras with wide eyes. “I know, maybe you should stop trying,” he choked out. Enjolras’ hand was cupping his face and he really wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or lean into his touch.  

He settled for closing his eyes. It was unfair that Enjolras could touch him but he couldn’t touch Enjolras, or maybe it was for the best, because had he been able to touch him, he probably would have pulled him close and hugged him right now.

“You know, sometimes I wish I’d met you earlier,” Enjolras mumbled.

Grantaire could only agree. He couldn’t help but wonder what they could have been, what would have happened if their paths had crossed all those years ago.

Another cold hand settled on Grantaire’s cheek, framing his face. “Don’t move,” Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire’s eyes fluttered open at that. “What are you doing?”

“Please, just let me...” Enjolras’ fingers trembled ever so slightly. “Close your eyes again?”

Grantaire obliged, felt cold lips press against his, still against him for a couple of seconds, followed by a soft exhale when Enjolras pulled back. “You look tired,” Enjolras whispered, “you should take another nap.”

Grantaire, however, couldn’t move, could only stare at Enjolras.

“Maybe you should sleep on the couch, though,” Enjolras continued, “I tried to put on clean bedsheets for you while you were asleep, but I didn’t quite manage.”

“You kissed me.”

Enjolras smiled and took him by the hand. “I just wanted to know what it felt like.”

“And what did it feel like?” Grantaire asked.

“Like I was alive again.”

* * *

Grantaire ended up going to bed after all, hours later, an old blanket wrapped around himself. Who needed bedsheets anyway? Enjolras curled up next to him, one hand resting on his chest, right above his heart.

When he woke up in the morning, Enjolras was gone.


End file.
